


The Inadequacy of Translation

by outofcertainty



Series: Through Symbolic Means [4]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 20:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10647492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outofcertainty/pseuds/outofcertainty
Summary: Magnus still has a problem. Alec might have a solution.





	The Inadequacy of Translation

**Author's Note:**

> And here you go. The final installment of Through Symbolic Means, at least for the time being. I almost made myself cry writing this one.
> 
> This series has gathered a lot more attention than I thought it would and I want to thank each and every one of you for taking the time to read it and for making me feel welcome here in the fandom.
> 
> So thank you! Without further delay, here’s the final drabble.

The first thing he did was go talk to Izzy.

Unfortunately, she had been in the middle of dissecting a body, which meant talking over it. It wasn’t so much that it bothered Alec – he had assisted her with this before and professional might as well be his middle name – but the smell was never, ever pleasant. Although at least he wasn’t Luke. Being a werewolf cop must be difficult enough in crime scenes, he couldn’t really imagine a werewolf pathologist.

“Hold this,” Izzy said, handing him something black and slimy and _drippin_ g. He took it in one gloved hand, more gingerly than he’d ever admit. The corner of her lips twitched up in amusement for a second, making him narrow hi eyes.

“Very funny. I thought you needed the help.”

“I do,” she said, lightly, waving the scalpel around. “But you’re the one who wanted to speak with me. So spill, big brother. I’m listening.”

It took him a moment to come up with the words. She didn’t pressure or hurry him, focusing instead on her own task. His gaze stuck to the instrument she was holding, watching it cut a straight, incredibly precise line across death-pale skin.

“It’s about Magnus.”

The scalpel stopped. Her gaze rose up to meet his, eyes wide and dark with concern, a serious expression flickering across her face. It hit him then that Izzy had been right: despite being siblings, despite the fierce love and devotion they’d always had for one another, they never used to talk about this, about _his_ personal life. It had been on him, Isabelle was always more than willing to listen, Alec just hadn’t been willing – _ready_ – to talk. Something else that had changed recently, but one thing that most definitively hadn’t was her concern for him. It made him smile a little, despite himself.

“Everything’s fine. We’re fine. I just… I think I need your help with something.”

“What is it?”

“What would you do if… how do you keep someone from forgetting you?”

Her brow rose, sharply, confusion giving way to surprise. That had probably been the wrong place to start, but he wasn’t quite sure how to explain it. Telling her everything would make him feel better but it wasn’t _his_ story to tell. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Magnus by talking about a very personal issue without even asking for permission first. Alec took a breath and decided to do the only thing that had actually worked out well for him: being honest.

“Look, I don’t know how much I can tell you because it’s… it’s personal, for Magnus.”

She stared at him, rather intensely still, but didn’t ask any question, just nodded and gave him time to search for the right words.

“So if you… if you wanted to stop someone from forgetting you, how would you do it?”  
  
“There’s always pictures.”

Alec pursed his lips and shook his head. Pictures would work, up to a point. It was something he was absolutely going to include, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Videos were better and he had thought of those too, but it still wasn’t enough. There was an idea lurking in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t bring it forth, couldn’t seem to grasp it, and it unsettled him, leaving him not so much in a state of restlessness as in a state of _disquiet_ – one of the words he had stumbled across, earlier, while searching for something.

“What if it’s been long enough that the picture becomes just a picture?”

Isabelle tilted her head. Silence stretched between them, deep and pensive, but not uncomfortable. It must have taken an entire minute for her to speak again.

“Alec, why do we write reports after missions?”

 _What?_ He stared harder at her, both brows furrowing immediately. The non-sequitur caught him completely off-guard.

“Why do we write reports after missions?” she asked again, patiently.

“So that the Head of the Institute can read them.”

Izzy rolled her eyes, which pretty much meant that that wasn’t the answer she had been waiting for, but smiled regardless.

“Why do we _save_ those reports, then?”

“So we can access them later.”

There was a pause during which his sister pointedly raised a brow at him. Alec kept staring back, trying to figure out what she was hinting at – and she only ever looked at him like that when she was trying to get him to figure something out.

He thought about it for a second. They wrote the reports so the Head of the Institute – whoever that might be at the time, maybe he was a little bitter still – could read them. They archived the same reports so they could access them later. It was the sensible thing to do, otherwise recalling specific information would be too difficult. They’d have to call the agents involved and even then, there was no guarantee that they would-

Alec blinked. Izzy smiled at him suddenly, bright and happy, and laughed when he pulled her into a hug, squeezing her a little.

“You’re the best, Izzy.”

“I know I am, dear brother,” he rested his chin on top of her head, smiling a little at her laughter.

It was something he could have figured out by himself, but he really did appreciate her nudging him in the right direction – which she had done so many times before. Alec hadn’t always shown his appreciation for that. He’d have to correct that soon but he wanted to do this for Magnus first.

A thousand different thoughts flashed quickly through his mind, leaving him disoriented – the weight of the notebook, still on the inside of his jacket; his thoughts about words; Magnus’ confessions about the fragility of memory; their late night, half-asleep conversations about language and literature and philosophy – but eventually settling down into something resembling order. Something resembling _a plan_.

“I’m going to need your help.”

Izzy looked up at him, gaze clear and unflinching, and he knew that he had it, that’d he’d _always_ have it.

Alec smiled and kissed the top of her head. Time to get to work.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

Magnus eyed the potion bubbling away on the table. He was quite certain he’d added everything in the precise quantities, in the precise order, at the precise times, but these things tended to be very… finnicky. Temperamental, even.

Ragnor had once joked – he wished, oh how he wished his friend would show again and it the wake of that desperate deeling came the ever-present fear of forgetting which he shoved aside – that the only thing more temperamental than a potion was Magnus himself. He thought that had been quite unfair, although Ragnor _had_ seen him through his… turbulent… teenage years. And beyond. In his defense, some things required a bit of a temper to adequately deal with – and others tended to make you _develop_ one.

At any rate, he was sure that it wasn’t supposed to be _purple_. A nice seafoam green would be expected, he’d take a muted cyan, even. Anything approaching purple was definitely not a good look on this potion, he thought, slowly reaching for the werewolf fang jar at the edge of the table. The sound of the door opening distracted him – ah, that would be his dear Alexander – but a strong hissing noise promptly drew his attention back to the task at hand. Hurriedly, Magnus picked up one of the fangs and gingerly dropped it into the cauldron, taking as few steps back immediately. Wisps of red smoke blew out over the edges for a few seconds.

“Magnus?”

“Yes?” he turned around on the spot, hand still raised.

Alec stood there, in the doorway, eyeing the potion as if it might bite him. Which it might, in truth, but Magnus wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Is everything alright?”

The way his head was turned to look at the cauldron made his deflect rune stand out more than usual; sharp, thick lines brushing just under his jaw and down his neck. Part of it was covered by the collar of Alec’s leather jacket – which was a shame. Not the jacket itself, it suited the man’s wide shoulders rather well. Shoulders that Magnus was very, very fond of, but there was little he didn’t appreciate in him, from his thick hair to the way he usually stood with both hands clasped behind his back.

What had taken Magnus an embarrassing amount of time to understand about Alec was his paradoxical nature. He knew that the Shadowhunter wasn’t as emotionless as he pretended to be, nor as inflexible. But everything about him, from his posture to his words to the very lines of his form screamed rigidity. There were only two things that had betrayed him, that let Magnus glimpse at the man underneath the soldier’s perfectly crafted masked.

The first had been the care he had shown himself capable of – when Jace needed his help, when Magnus had exhausted himself magically, when Isabelle asked something of him. The second had been, ironically, seeing him fight. Watching any Shadowhunter fight was spectacular, of course, as they trained for little else, but seeing Alec fight was a thing of beauty. Quick and deadly, fluid movements flowing into each other seamlessly in such a way that it wouldn’t surprise him if angelic grace was directly involved.

Gentleness and motion in such a seemingly stoic man. It reminded him of their very first night together – of the muscle under his hand, solid and firm but twitching at every light, grazing touch and every breath; straight, blunt lines but so _warm_. Paradoxical. Every person was, of course, and they each presented a unique blend of contradictions, but none were quite so enthralling as Alexander’s, none made him want to bury himself in them, pulling them apart with dexterous fingers, exploring and mapping every inch of their being and soul and body, only to put them back together again.

“ _Magnus_.”

He blinked, abruptly brought back to the present and, most pressingly, to Alec’s worried face.

“Yes?”

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yes,” Magnus glanced back at the potion but at the sight of calm, seafoam green bubbles, he promptly dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Nothing to worry about.”

Alec didn’t look entirely convinced, still eyeing the cauldron with mild suspicion. Magnus chuckled as he walked closer, one hand curling around his boyfriend’s neck, the other flat against his chest, barely having the time to do so before Alec was kissing him – short, gently kisses peppered along his bottom lip, _hello_ and _I missed you_ and _I’m home_. The firm muscle under his hand relaxed slowly, by degrees, his posture releasing the tension it had been holding with every lazy press of lips and every exhale, turning into something softer, warmer, _easier._

There was a thumb hooked into one of the belt loops on his pants, tugging him closer, making him smile and laugh and break off the kiss to look at such lovely hazel eyes, speckled with green and gold, love and determination. The loft might have started as Magnus’ sanctuary, but it belonged to both of them now, the only place where Alec allowed himself to be at ease, sure in the knowledge that he was safe.

“I have something for you.”

“Oh?” Magnus grinned at him, tapping one index finger against his chest. “Another protection charm?”  
  
“Not quite,” Alec’s lips twitched up, face still lighting up with pride at how well he had chosen the last gift. The thumb tugging him nearer disappeared, replaced by a hand sprawling across his lower back, nudging him forward. “Come on.”

“I do know where my living room is, Alexander,” he said, walking obligingly towards it, and then the couch. “Why, I recall carrying you in here not two days ago and wasn’t that a delightful experience? Oh, speaking of which, do you still have fingermarks on-“

Alec cleared his throat, flushing a little and glancing at him – only half shy now, hunger flickering in his eyes for a moment, brow raised in something that seemed very close to a challenge. “After the gift.”

“Oh yes, very well.”

Magnus sat down on the couch with a grace that came naturally to him – after many years of practice, not that he was going to admit that – and that he knew Alec enjoyed watching, before crossing his legs and looking at him expectantly. His boyfriend sat down next to him, sideways so they would be facing one another, one leg underneath him. Magnus had no time to ask anything before a brown bag was placed between them.

He stared at it for a moment, as if by doing so he’d be able to guess its contents. Alec rolled his eyes and gestured towards the bag. “Go on.”

Needing no further prompting, Magnus reached inside and slowly, carefully pulled out what seemed like a big book. There was nothing else in the bag, so he carelessly pushed it off the couch in other to place the gift between them. It was large, like an old tome, and not quite square in shape. The pages were thick from what he could see, it was bound with something not unlike leather and there was a simple, elegant script on the top, not quite flowery but not overly Spartan either. _Magnus & Alec_.

He stared at it for a moment.

“Is… Alec, is this a photo album?”

“Open it and see.”

Hesitation and trepidation suddenly rushed up his spine, replacing the normal, steady beat of his heart. Every so slowly, he flipped open the cover – and immediately noticed a transparent pocket on the back of it where three rune-marked crystals and two small, black squares rested.

“Magical and digital backups of everything,” Alec said, anticipating his question. “And there’s more of them. Because you said… you said you’d lost some over time, so…”

Magnus kept staring at them, oddly reluctant to look at his boyfriend but trying to recall what he could possibly be talking about. It clicked, a moment later – pictures. Alec had asked him before if he didn’t have any pictures or photos of the people important to him. Some, he had replied, had been lost.

The next page did indeed contain pictures, but that wasn’t all. There was writing all around them, in different colors, different handwritings, and it took him several seconds to place or accurately guess most of them. The pleasant, round, perfectly symmetrical letters had to be Clary’s, and then of course Isabelle with the bright red pen, Simon with an impressive amount of pop culture reference for such a limited space, Jace with the tall, narrow letters, Raphael with cursive, Maia with perfectly legible but strong strokes-

And they were all writing about Alec. About Magnus. About _them_. Personal retellings of moments witnessed between them, encouragement, private jokes, descriptions of where and when some pictures had been taken and why, reasons why they should get married right now – oh, Isabelle – and more. He couldn’t tear his eyes way, even when Alec gently moved the page over. On the second page there were more pictures, but there, on the left, on the back of the first one, there was only writing.

 _Alec’s_ writing. Magnus’ swallowed dryly, suddenly struggling to breathe, unable to actually read anything, merely glimpsing some of the words – _duty_ and _tradition_ and _family_ but also _love_ and _beautiful_ and _thank you_ – before slowly, hesitantly, almost painfully looking at the Shadowhunter sitting in front of him again.

He couldn’t possibly guess what emotion he was currently displaying, couldn’t even attempt to guess what he was currently _feeling_ , but whatever it was, it made Alec’s slightly anxious expression grow calmer, surer, softer, _gentler_.  Tender hands brushed his bangs back, probably messing up his perfectly styled hair, but there was little he cared less about right then. There was a moment of silence and then his boyfriend uttered a single word, painstakingly slow and with great care:

“Mutterseelenallein.”

If he was in a more stable mood, he’d have been embarrassed by how long it took him to make sense of the word, and how much longer still it took him to be able to reply at all.

“Was ist dir passiert, Liebling? Sprich mit mir.” [1]

Alec chuckled, a deep, warm sound, followed by a smile that should be the subject of countless sonnets, that made the sunset streaking across the sky in beautiful pinks and purples seem joyless in comparison. Distantly, in some part of his mind, he could just hear Ragnor grumbling about his romantic streak.

“I should have known you speak German. You know what it means then.”

“Yes,” Magnus admitted, raising a hand to brush two trembling fingers over the corner of Alec’s mouth, continuing at the slight look of disappointment the man was trying so hard to conceal. “But I would very much like to hear you say it. Please?”

There it was. The set of his jaw, the piercing look in his eyes, the subtle intake of breath. His Alexander with a mission, with a purpose, unshakeable and ready to take on the world.

“It’s a German word, back from the eighteenth century. It… it means… being alone. But not just alone- completely, utterly alone. Like there isn’t… a single soul around you, not even your mother.”

 Magnus said nothing, left Alec’s voice wash over him, not caring about the words stuck in his throat or his struggling breath.

“You mentioned your… when we were talking about memory the other day, I wished I had a word to describe that, so I went to search for one. I’ve been thinking a lot about words, about our… you know, the conversations we’ve had about language… do you remember the German philosopher you told me about?”

His mouth felt dry, it was hard to speak. Alec didn’t seem to be in any rush, just staring at him kindly, only moving one hand to rest on top of his.

“I… I am afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Alexander. There have been a great many German philosophers.”

“I know, I can’t keep them straight. The one who spoke about … hermeneutics? Interpretation.”

“Ah. Dear old Friedrich.”

“Of course you knew him personally,” Alec rolled his eyes, grin wide and happy with such fondness, none of the judgement or insecurity that Magnus had feared so much at first. “Yeah, him. You told me about his book, about how he said that… we’re influenced by language, right, but _we_ also influence the language we use. About how only a specific author could use that language in that specific way?”

Magnus’ lips flickered up slightly – not a smile, not really, not quite, but close. “And you said it was like literature. We only know the characters through their words. We only know the authors through their words.”

“We only know people through their words,” Alec finished, nodding. “That’s how you know who and how people are. You can recognize them by what they say as easy as through a picture, sometimes easier. So I thought…”

There was a pause. Alec seemed to gather himself again, gently grabbing both of Magnus’ hands in his and squeezing lightly. There was no confusion in his gaze, no shadow of doubt, no hesitation and Gods, had Magnus himself ever been so sure of something, had anyone ever been so sure of _anything_?

“You said it yourself: we can’t tell the future. Maybe there’ll be a solution for our- problem- and I swear to you Magnus, I will _never_ stop looking for it. But even if, you know, we can’t… there’s _this_ ,” letting go of one of this hands, Alec pointed at the photo book. “There’s pictures and recordings and videos too, but you have my words here. I know it's not the same, that it can't be the same as me being with you, right now, but it's the closest thing to it. It's the... the one form of immortality that even mundanes have. You have my words and so you'll still have me, _here,_ in my writing. And even if one day you don’t have me here,” his finger pointed at Magnus’ temple and then down, at his chest, his heart. “Or here. You’ll still have me. You’ll _always_ have me.”

His mouth parted as if to reply or to plea, his heart was stuck in his throat, his vision blurry – he could feel the tears roll down his face but before he could have the horrified realization that he was probably ruining Alec’s gift, it had already been moved away, onto the coffee table, and he was being pulled into his arms. Letting out a shuddering breath, Magnus gripped Alec’s hips tightly, burying his head in his shoulder, and let himself fall, just once. He hadn’t realized how truly, maddening heavy it had all been, not talking about this, not uttering any of it to a single soul, a burden that was his alone to carry.

Other people had given him gifts to remember them by, sometimes absurdly lavish and expensive ones, and Magnus himself was very fond of extravagant offerings, but no one had ever given him _this_. He hadn’t expected this, any of it. He had never expected Alexander Lightwood.

A comforting hand ran up and down his back in soothing motions, there were kisses pressed against his head and mumbled words he couldn’t quite understand whispered against his skin. Time seemed to move sluggishly, with Alec’s warmth reaching him through the thin shirt, but eventually he was able to breathe normally again.

“There’s one more thing.”

Magnus made himself pull away, determined to face Alexander again, heart brittle and full to the brim and worn down and born anew as it was. There was little need to hide how much this had affected him – or the surprise in seeing his boyfriend pull out not just the notebook he had _borrowed_ from the warlock’s desk a while ago, but another exactly like it, from inside his jacket.

“It’s not just the people, right? It’s the moment and the emotions and… everything else. Everything messy. So… I got you one, too. I’ve been using it just to think, but I wanted you to write those things down,” Alec shrugged, even as he tossed the notebooks on top of the photo album with perfect aim, not willing to lean away even for a moment. “Maybe it will help you remember for longer. Maybe it won’t. But that way, you’ll always have _your_ thoughts and memories and feelings too, even if you forget.”

“ _Alexander-_ “

The words caught in his throat again. He skirted his hands up Alec’s torso, his shoulders, finally cupping his face, looking at him desperately as if that would convey what he needed it to. Magnus Bane had faced down demons, fairies, vampires and werewolves and shadowhunters and other warlocks, all manners of creatures and beings, some of which were bigger and stronger and more terrifying than he was, whose encounter he shouldn’t have survived, none of which had left him speechless – and yet, here he was, left without a word.

Alec smiled at him again, crooked and so, _so_ genuine as he leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together without breaking eye contact, as if he couldn’t bear to close his eyes for merely a second either.

“It’s okay, Magnus. It’s okay. You have me. _Always_.”

**Author's Note:**

> [1] – “What happened to you, sweetheart? Talk to me.” Hopefully. My German is more than a little rusty and it was never great to begin with.
> 
> Oh and as promised, here are where I took the tiles from:
> 
>  _The Spirit of (a) Language_ has been used by many, many translation scholars since at least St. Jerome but the particular use that inspired the name was from Friedrich Schleiermacher’s _Über die verschiedenen Methoden des Übersetzens_ (“On the Different Methods of Translating”). Alec’s musings about language and its influence in all drabbles are a very, very superficial and passing note of what Schleiermacher explores. 
> 
> _The Persistence of Memory_ is one of Salvador Dalí’s most famous painting. You know the one, with the melting watches. This is where I should probably insert some clever joke about relativity and cheese but I’ll spare you.
> 
>  _The Doors of Perception_ is from William Blake’s _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_ : “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.”
> 
>  _The Inadequacy of Translation_ is from a quote by Goethe: “Say what we may of the inadequacy of translation, yet the work is and will always be one of the weightiest and worthiest undertakings in the general concerns of the world.”
> 
> And _Through Symbolic Means_ is a nod to the theory of symbolic interactionism. It’s a sociological thing. Quite interesting though.
> 
> … right then, I’m sure I’ve bored you to death with all this translation and language theory. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed these little drabbles!
> 
> As usual, you can find me [HERE](https://outofcertainty.tumblr.com/).


End file.
